The Mystic Rose by Stephen Lawhead

Author:Stephen Lawhead [Lawhead, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-21T04:30:05+00:00

‘I am not suggesting we give up the search,’ Rognvald replied, his voice growing tight with exasperation. ‘But there is no need for all of us to grow wet and miserable with it. You could go back down and wait with Dag at the wagon. By the time you join him, he will have reached the waiting place and will have a fire going.’

‘You can sit and warm yourself by the fire,’ Cait told him. ‘I am going to find my sister.’

‘Then we move on.’ Rognvald motioned to the others to mount their horses, and the party continued.

Halfway down the slope, the rain started. It was not long before Cait felt the cold wet begin to seep into her cloak. Before they reached the valley floor she was chilled to the bone and wishing she had not dismissed Rognvald’s offer so hastily. But now, having rejected the suggestion, she was determined not to allow him the satisfaction of proving her wrong. So she put all thoughts of warmth and comfort behind her and pulled the hood of her damp cloak lower over her head to keep the rain out of her face.

The valley was shallow and did little to slow the wind gusting down from the mountains. They came to the marker - a pile of stones at the edge of the stream; on the opposite side was another - this one in the rough shape of an arrowhead pointing upstream. They rode in the direction indicated by the marker, following along the grey stream as it wound its way around the large rocks and boulders which had fallen from the slopes above. After a while the rain turned to sleet, and they stopped in the shelter of some young pines to eat a little dried meat, but the trees offered so little protection from the stinging, wind-driven pellets of ice that they quickly decided to take to their saddles again before the horses grew too cold, and their sweaty coats began to freeze.

As the day wore on, Cait’s hopes of quickly rescuing Alethea began to dwindle; they were briefly revived when another marker was found and, a short distance beyond it, the remains of a small campfire in a bend in the valley where the stream pooled. The Moors had stopped there - to water the horses and prepare a meal, no doubt - but aside from a small heap of soggy ashes and unburnt ends of branches, there was nothing to see.

Rognvald examined the tracks leading from the campsite, and concluded that the bandits no longer feared pursuit.

‘How do you know?’ wondered Cait. One set of water-filled hoofprints looked very like another, and these were no different from any she had seen so far.

‘The gait of the horses tells the tale,’ replied Rodrigo. ‘The riders are in no great hurry. See here,’ he pointed to a series of moon-shaped tracks pressed deep in the mud, ‘see how the leading edge of each hoof-print is scuffed -‘

‘I see.’ Cait looked more closely.

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